novelraw Arc 4 - Kṛṣṇa-yāna Parva Chapter 14 - The Last Plea for Peace
Arc 4 - Kṛṣṇa-yāna Parva Chapter 14 - The Last Plea for Peace
Vaiśampāyana said—
When Keśava had finished speaking, the assembly fell into deep silence. The words of the Divine were like the roar of thunder breaking the stillness of the sky. Then Bhīṣma, son of Śāntanu, his face pale with age and concern, turned to Duryodhana—the wrathful scion of Kuru’s line—and spoke with measured gravity.
“O child of the Bharatas,” he said, “Keśava hath spoken for peace—peace among kinsmen, peace that sustaineth the world. Follow His counsel, O sire, and do not yield to wrath, for anger is the seed of ruin. If thou actest not as the high-souled Kṛṣṇa hath urged, neither prosperity nor joy nor the good of thy soul wilt thou ever know.
These words that have fallen from His lips are steeped in dharma and in profit. Accept them, O Duryodhana, and do not destroy by thy folly this vast prosperity of the Bharatas, whose glory shineth among all kings. Even while thy father yet liveth, thou wilt, through arrogance, bring down ruin upon thy house. Thy counsellors, sons, brothers, and kin shall all perish with thee if thou transgressest the words of Keśava, of thy father, and of wise Vidura.
Be not the slayer of thine own race,
be not the shadow of unrighteousness.
Turn thy heart from sin;
for the path of adharma leadeth only into darkness.
Raise not thy hand against thy kin;
plunge not thy parents into the ocean of grief.
The tears of the old shall burn more fiercely than fire.”
Thus spoke Bhīṣma—his voice trembling with the pain of love. Then Droṇa, master of celestial weapons, lifted his calm face and addressed the stubborn prince, whose breath came fast with anger.
“O sire,” he said, “the words of Keśava are truth; those of Bhīṣma are truth. They speak what is good for thee—both wise, both unshaken in their souls, both desiring only thy welfare. Accept their counsel, O monarch, and win both virtue and peace. He who spurns the voice of the righteous and listens to flatterers hastens his own destruction.
Know, O Duryodhana, that the host which hath Kṛṣṇa and Arjuna in its midst is invincible. No power on earth or heaven can stand before them. The friends who now praise thee will cast the burden of war upon others when battle begins. Do not, therefore, slaughter the sons of Pāṇḍu, nor the Earth’s people for thine own pride.
The bow of Arjuna is death;
the chariot of Keśava is victory.
The wise see what is to come,
but folly seeth not till the blade is at its throat.”
Droṇa’s words fell like heavy rain upon a parched field—yet Duryodhana’s heart remained dry.
Then Vidura, the voice of truth, rose and cast his compassionate eyes upon the prince. His words trembled with both grief and foreknowledge.
“O Duryodhana,” he said, “I grieve not for thee, but for thy parents—this old couple, Dhṛtarāṣṭra and Gandhārī. Bereft of sons and counsel, they shall wander the earth, helpless as two birds whose wings have been shorn. Thou art their ruin, O prince, the slayer of thy race. Thou wilt leave them only ashes where once there was a kingdom.”
And after Vidura’s lament, Dhṛtarāṣṭra himself—his sightless eyes wet with tears—spoke once more, addressing his defiant son who sat among the gathered kings.
“Listen, O Duryodhana,” said the aged monarch, “to the words of Keśava. His counsel is eternal, born of heaven, and shaped for thy highest good. Through Him, O son, our house may yet be saved; through Him all our cherished desires may find fulfilment. Be reconciled with the sons of Pāṇḍu. Let Keśava bind our hearts together as one people once more. The time for peace is now—do not let it slip away.
If thou rejectest the words of Keśava, the doer of righteous deeds, then never shall victory be thine.”
So spoke the elders—Bhīṣma, Droṇa, Vidura, and Dhṛtarāṣṭra—each voice heavy with wisdom, each heart laden with sorrow. Yet Duryodhana sat unmoved, his face dark as a storm-cloud, his pride burning like hidden fire—foretelling the doom of Kurukṣetra.
Vaiśampāyana said—
When Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s trembling voice ceased, Bhīṣma and Droṇa—those twin pillars of the Kuru throne—rose once more, their hearts heavy with compassion for the blind king and sorrow for the ruin they foresaw.
They turned to Duryodhana, the stubborn prince, and spoke with the calm force of thunder restrained:
“O son of Dhṛtarāṣṭra,” said Bhīṣma, “as yet the two Kṛṣṇas are unarmed—Keśava and Dhanañjaya have not donned their mail. The Gāṇḍīva still rests silent; the war-fire of Dhaumya hath not yet been kindled with oblations for destruction. Yudhiṣṭhira, that mighty bowman, whose modesty is his crown, hath not yet cast the wrathful glance that blazes like fire upon the ranks of thy army. Therefore, O child, let hostility cease.”
Droṇa followed, his voice deep and sorrowful:
“As yet Bhīmasena, son of Prithā, is not beheld standing in the heart of battle. His dreadful mace doth not yet whirl among the troops; his roar, that maketh elephants tremble, hath not yet echoed over the field. Before that terror walketh forth like Death himself, make peace, O Duryodhana, while peace may still be made.”
“As yet,” said they, “Bhīma’s iron club
Hath not crushed the helms of kings;
As yet, the ground is not strewn with heads,
Like ripe palmyra fruits in fall.
As yet Nakula and Sahadeva,
And Prishata’s son Dṛṣṭadyumna fierce,
And Virāṭa the lion-hearted,
And Śikhaṇḍin, dread as Death himself,
And the valiant son of Śiśupāla—
These heroes, clad in shining mail,
Have not yet pierced thy gathered ranks,
Pouring their arrows as rain from storming clouds.
Therefore, O king, let peace be made.”
They continued in one voice, solemn as the toll of fate:
“As yet the showers of barbed shafts have not begun to fall upon the tender bodies of assembled kings; as yet, the ornaments of gold and gems are not yet stained with blood. The warriors still breathe the fragrance of sandal and agaru upon their bodies; the garlands they wear are not yet withered by death. Before those ornaments are rent by weapons of iron and steel, before the beauty of life is lost in the mire of battle, let peace be made, O son of Gandhārī.”
Then Bhīṣma’s tone softened—his words flowing like a father’s prayer:
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“O bull among Bharatas, let the noble Yudhiṣṭhira the Just receive thee with an embrace when thou bowest before him. Let that king—whose hands bear the marks of sacrifice and royal grace—place his right arm, gem-adorned and strong, upon thy shoulder in friendship.
Let Bhīma, the mighty-armed, broad as the trunk of the śāla tree, clasp thee with affection and speak to thee words of peace. Let Arjuna and the Twins, saluting thee, bow their heads, and let thee, in turn, smell them with a father’s love as of old.
Behold, O prince, how fair that sight would be—
Brothers long parted joined again,
The tears of joy upon their cheeks
Washing away the dust of war.
Let trumpets sound of peace, not slaughter;
Let the heralds cry through every city
That the sons of Kuru are united once more.”
And thus they concluded:
“Rule the Earth, O Duryodhana, in brotherly affection; let thy heart be free from the fever of envy and wrath. The joy of reconciliation is greater than the joy of conquest. Before the bow is strung, before blood darkens the fields of Kurukṣetra, let peace be made.”
Vaiśampāyana said:
When the elders’ voices sank into the hush of the court, Duryodhana, possessed by wrath and proud as a withered banyan that forgets its roots, rose and spoke to Kṛṣṇa with a voice like a struck drum. He would not yield; he would not bend. Addressing Keśava, he demanded that the Lord weigh every circumstance before censuring him, and in that demand the arrogance of a prince blinded to counsel was plain.
Duryodhana said that he found no fault in his own conduct. How, he asked, could he be blamed for what had passed at dice when that game had been gladly played and lost by the Pandavas through Śakuni’s craft? He reminded Kṛṣṇa that he had ordered the wealth be returned; he asked what crime lay against him because the Pandavas later suffered misfortunes and retired to the forest. Why should the victors who twice found themselves vanquished call him their enemy? He could not see, he declared, why the sons of Pāṇḍu and the Srinjayas sought to destroy the sons of Dhṛtarāṣṭra. He denied fear, avowed that he would not bow even to Indra, and maintained that no Kshatriya who lives by honour should bend to an enemy merely to save life.
He boasted of the strength that clustered about his house—Bhīṣma, Droṇa, Kripa, Karṇa—and declared that even the gods could not overthrow these. If, he said, their end should come on the field of battle, it would be a heroic end; a warrior’s bed is a bed of arrows, and so long as a Kshatriya lives he must hold himself erect. He invoked Matanga’s maxim: better to break than to bow; better to bow only to the learned Brahmanas. Thus he swore, in arrogance, that the share of kingdom once given away in his childhood by ignorance should never be restored to the Pāṇḍavas while he lived. Not even a needle’s tip of his dominion would he yield.
Pride is my armor, I shall not stoop;
The field is my bed, the spear my truth.
Bring me the fight if fight there be—
better to die unbent than to live as slave.
Kings circle like wolves about their prey,
I am the mast that holds the house of Kuru.
Let no man pluck from me a single grain—
while breath remains, while life endures.
Thus, wrapped in self-justification, he scorned the counsel of Bhīṣma, Droṇa, Vidura, and even his father. Where others saw ruin, Duryodhana saw only the proof of his own valor and the rightness of his resolve. In the sight of Kṛṣṇa’s words—wise, measured, and urgent—he set up his creed of unbending pride and prepared, by that refusal, the doom of Kurukṣetra.
Vaiśampāyana said:
When Kṛṣṇa’s words had fallen like rain upon parched ground, the assembly of Kuru princes sat heavy with shame and warning. Duryodhana, stung and inflamed, answered—not with reason but with resentment—and Bhīṣma, the old general, who loved the race though he feared for it, rose and spoke with a voice that trembled between sorrow and command. He reproved the prince for the gambling, for the outrage upon Draupadī, and for the secret plots of fire and poison. “Thou didst contrive the game,” Bhīṣma said, “and without the counsel of the righteous thou didst let loose that calamity. What man of honour would draw a sister’s shame into an assembly? Who but a heartless and despicable fellow could have designed the burning of children or the stings of serpent and cord? Thy sins are many, thy devices murderous; how then canst thou claim innocence?”
Dussāsana, his brother, spoke with fierce urgency in the court and pressed the matter further: if Duryodhana would not make peace willingly, he taunted, then the Kauravas themselves—Bhīṣma, Droṇa, Dhṛtarāṣṭra included—would bind the prince and hand him over to the Pandavas. The words were a thunderbolt in the hall; they showed that even among the Kauravas some counselled restraint and shame.
Duryodhana, breath heaving like an angry serpent, rose then and would not be stayed. Disregarding Vidura, Dhṛtarāṣṭra, Vahlika, Kripa, Somadatta, Bhīṣma, Droṇa, and even Kṛṣṇa, he stalked from the court in rage; his brothers and counsellors flowing after him like a dark tide. At his departure the elders remained, the hall ringing with the echo of his insolence.
Bhīṣma, seeing the house of Kuru sway, spoke again—his words both a lament and an imperative. “This is great transgression,” he said. “These elders of the line have failed if they will not seize and bind this wicked king who, abandoning virtue and profit, follows only rage. When kin endanger the house, one must sacrifice an individual for the safety of the whole. As the Yadavas once united to remove Kamsa for the good of their race, so must you, O Bharatas, now act to save the greater family. Bind Duryodhana; deliver him to the Pandavas; let not the whole Kshatriya race be slaughtered for one man’s pride.”
In sober, measured cadence he added a reminder of past example and cosmic duty: when gods and asuras were arrayed and slaughter seemed near, the great Cause commanded right to bind the wrongdoers and preserve the order of things. If a family, a village, a province, or the whole earth must be sacrificed to save the race, then so be it—but let not that sacrifice be made for a single man’s fury. Bind Duryodhana; make peace with the Pandavas; spare the Kuru race the doom that rage would bring.
Better one chain laid upon a single head
Than thousands broken by the sword;
Let kin bind kin, and so preserve the line,
For the house that stands is worth more than the head that storms.
Thus Bhīṣma’s counsel closed—stern, paternal, and absolute. The hour had come for either the binding of a prince or the beginning of slaughter; the choice trembled in the court like a drawn bowstring.
Vaiśampāyana said:
When Keśava’s words had fallen like thunderbolts upon the court, King Dhṛtarāṣṭra, pale with fear and shame, turned to Vidura, whose wisdom was his final refuge. “Go, O child,” said the old king, “bring hither Gāndhārī, whose foresight pierces shadow. If any can awaken conscience in this deluded son of mine, it is she. Let her speak words that soothe the storm of his greed. If she can pacify Duryodhana, the earth may yet rest in peace.”
Vidura, obedient to his father’s trembling command, hastened to the queen’s chambers and returned with Gāndhārī—the steadfast mother, veiled in dark cloth, her eyes long shrouded yet her vision keen.
Dhṛtarāṣṭra said to her, “Behold, O queen, this son of ours, deaf to my words and scornful of his elders, who leaves the court in wrath. Consumed by his lust for sovereignty, he hurries to ruin both life and realm. Wilt thou not restrain him, whose mind is enslaved by envy and evil counsel?”
Gāndhārī, that noble lady of firm heart, answered in measured tones: “Bring hither, without delay, that misguided child who covets kingship beyond right. A man who casts aside virtue and profit alike is unworthy to rule. Yet, blinded by thy love, O king, thou hast allowed this fool of wicked heart to seize the throne. Thou didst know his sinfulness, yet thou followedst his counsel. Now behold the fruit of indulgence—division among kin and laughter among foes. Force cannot mend what conciliation can heal. Act swiftly, before this fire consumes the house of Kuru.”
At her command and the king’s, Vidura summoned Duryodhana once more. The prince entered the hall, eyes blazing red with anger, breath hissing like a serpent’s, his pride unbent even before his blind father and his veiled mother.
Then Gāndhārī spoke—her words firm, grave, and edged with grief:
“O son, listen to thy mother’s counsel,
Words that lead to peace, not ruin.
Hear the voices of the wise—
Thy father, Bhīṣma, Droṇa, Kripa, and Vidura.
Honor their years, their truth, their love;
Obedience to the righteous brings lasting fame.”
She continued:
“Nobody wins a kingdom by desire alone. The reins of rule belong to him whose senses are bridled. Lust and wrath devour the fool as untamed horses slay their driver. Conquer thyself before thou seekest to conquer others. He who subdues his passions first will rule both counsellors and foes thereafter. Prosperity herself follows one who governs his own heart.
“O Duryodhana, lust and wrath are snares that close the gates of heaven. They are nets that catch kings like fish in deep water. Break them before they break thee. Rule not for pride but for righteousness; seek peace with the sons of Pāṇḍu, who are thy kin and not thy enemies. Bhīṣma and Droṇa have spoken truth—Keśava and Arjuna are unconquerable. Join thy cause with theirs, and the earth will yield her wealth to thee without bloodshed.
“He that listens not to wise friends gladdens only his foes. There is no virtue in battle, no true profit, no certain victory. The cession thy elders once made to the Pāṇḍavas brought thee thy own sovereignty; why destroy the fruit of that peace? Give them their rightful share, O son. Half the earth is enough for thee and thy counsellors to live in splendour.
“Cast away the fire of avarice. Thirteen years of persecution is enough. Quench it now with wisdom. Neither thou nor the Sūta’s son nor thy brother Dussāsana can stand before Bhīma and Arjuna when wrath inflames them. When Bhīṣma, Droṇa, Kripa, Karṇa, Bhīmasena, Dhananjaya, and Dṛṣṭadyumna take arms, the earth herself will bleed. Do not, O child, invite that deluge.
“Thou thinkest the elders will fight for thee with all their might—but know this: their hearts are torn in equal love for both houses. They will die for duty, not for thy greed. No man hath ever prospered through avarice. Give up this folly, O son, and rule as one who hath conquered himself. Thus alone may the Kuru race be saved.”
Her voice, though calm, carried the weight of destiny. In her blind eyes shone the inner fire of a seer; in her words trembled both a mother’s love and a prophet’s warning. But Duryodhana, still bound by pride, heard yet did not listen—like a man who, standing before the flood, mocks the clouds that foretell it.